They are three, coming to be ground and torn by jaws of eight and edict of four. They believe in the illusion of choice, in the ragged dream of their struggle. The disciple of reason, the holder of secrets, and the winged nobility, they are infused with fire. It will burn them.

I will burn them.

They are no more than ash.

But by knives of eight, for the glory of four, of the three there is the one whose pyre must be the galaxy. I pull the web, and shape his fate. The riven must stand before the undivided.

He will embrace the majesty of ruin.

Part I

One

One

The Redemption Leap

My sin is the greatest, the Angel thought. And so my need is the greatest. Father, hear my cry. Bring me to you.

His great wings folded, one hand resting on the pommel of the Blade Encarmine, the Angel stood as a towering, meditative statue on the central command dais of the Red Tear’s bridge. By his word, a fleet went to war. The power of a Legion flowed from him, and his decisions, his acts, had brought the sin to all his sons. His must be the power now to wash away that sin.

From the dais’ forwards, elevated position, Sanguinius had a pano­ramic view through the battleship’s windows. He watched the warp-torn agony of the void for a few final seconds as the shutters began to close. The view of the Ruinstorm narrowed, and the tension of the crew increased. The humans had survived the madness that had fallen upon the fleet on the jump to Signus Prime, though they bore the psychic scars, memories like shards of glass digging at their courage. But they looked at him and drew strength, and performed their duties. A navigation officer began counting down. Her voice was steady, committed. One after another, officers called from their stations, announcing the readiness of the vessel.